


redemption not so obsolete

by AvaMclean



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Drive Angry (2011)
Genre: BAMF Faith, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ringing in her thirty-fifth birthday with a whiskey twice her age and the crunch of bone just sorta felt right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	redemption not so obsolete

Title: redemption not so obsolete  
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Drive Angry and all related characters are copyright of Todd Farmer, Patrick Lussier & Summit Entertainment. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: Ringing in her thirty-fifth birthday with a whiskey twice her age and the crunch of bone just sorta felt right.

+

“I’m gonna kill you,” Faith snarled, throwing another punch, “and it’s gonna hurt.” 

Ringing in her thirty-fifth birthday with a whiskey twice her age and the crunch of bone just sorta felt right. It was a pity her trip around the forty-eight contiguous states (night school, bitches) had been interrupted by a string of brutal murders. Some real serial killer shit and she’d seen enough bodies in the last 72 hours to know she intended to kill the _sonofabitch_ in front of her. 

The bowie knife taking aim for her was blocked with a forearm and she drove her fist into his face. Again. His nose burst like something ripe and unappetizing. He stumbled back, knife falling to his side, as he hacked up blood and a few teeth. She’d mentioned the again, right?

Brown eyes narrowed on the blood staining the compact dirt beneath them. It was red and Faith was starting to get the impression that the target for her pent-up frustration was entirely too human and the bowie he was sporting had done the hacking and not some demon’s retractable claws. Exasperation brought forth a strangled sound that hurt her nose before she stepped forward and drove her fist once more into his face. 

Frustration with the fact that she now couldn’t kill him might’ve put a little too much force behind her swing as the knife dropped and he crumpled. She moved in, kicked the knife from his straining fingers and she could see the tension rising from his neck into his jaw. TKOs were the only way to deal with human evil—though some days Faith wished she was a little less reformed. 

She’d seen what he’d done with that knife and a gut full of rage. It made her want to stomp down on his straining throat, but she stepped back and reached for the cellphone tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. A pen clicked behind her and she spun, fists raised and eyes sweeping the deserted bit of road she’d driven her prey to run too. 

A man, slim, well-dressed and out of place, stood just a few feet away. Faith frowned, placing herself between him and the unconscious man at her feet. She didn’t like the idea of protecting this piece of shit. Not one little damn bit, but she kept watch as the other guy finished making his note. His fingers were long, their movement precise and there was a bob to his head as if he was listening to some internal beat. 

It was odd, someone using pen and paper in this day and age and odder still that he was just standing by the roadside without any obvious mode of transportation. He’d appeared out of freaking nowhere without her having heard a damn thing and in a suit that looked like it cost more than Faith’s bike. The man behind her groaned and Faith spared him a moment’s attention to deliver a swift kick to his ribs that kept him down and wheezing. 

“Mr. Callaway,” the cadence of the newcomer’s voice was conversational, “Involving a Slayer? You’re far stupider than I anticipated. How _did_ you manage to escape?” 

Since, apparently, Callaway couldn’t answer Faith bit. “Escaped?”

“Hell,” was supplied in that same even tone. 

Her brow rose, “Hell?” and her chin jutted outward a bit, “You from Wolfram and Hart?” 

“Hardly,” something slipped into his tone that made Faith think he considered them somewhere beneath the shit you’d scrap off your shoe. “I’m the Accountant.” 

“Hell’s Accountant?” she might’ve scoffed and possibly snickered. 

Blue eyes studied her a moment before one of them dropped into a wink and he agreed, “Precisely.” 

Faith was torn between punching him out principal for that wink and just for the hell of it which basically meant she was going to hit him. Hard. A step forward was taken and the Accountant’s hands rose in a peaceful way. The notebook and pen had vanished to parts unknown and he was showing off those empty hands all ‘see ma’ no weapons’ which meant jack shit to a Slayer. 

Drop her weaponless in a frenzy and watch her kick ass till she had bones for clubs and teeth for trophies. The Accountant felt cut from a similar clothe and his lack of love for Callaway only made him marginally less punchable. Those were her primary reasons for not attacking first and asking questions—well—she never actually _asked_ questions. 

“What’s he to you?” 

“A prisoner in need of transport back to his cell.” He smiled, hands dropping to hang loose at his sides. 

“In hell?” Faith stressed just for clarification and the Accountant’s head inclined in an agreeable manner. She shook her head, “How’d he get out?”

“I’d ask him, but I do believe you’ve beaten him senseless.” His mouth quirked and Faith ignored the way it tugged at the scar beneath his left eye. “You can’t kill the dead as they’re already dead, but you can hurt them.” He leaned forward, voice pitched low, “Bravo.” 

“He murdered twelve people!” Faith’s fists tightened, her arms straining with the urge to hit something—preferably the smug asshole in front of her. 

“And that matters to you?” The question made her frown as he raised a brow, “Ms. Lehane, I admit you intrigue me. It’s not every day I converse with someone whose appointment with me has been cancelled.” He straightened, lean hands adjusting this tie as he finished, “Rescheduled? Certainly. But cancellation? That’s a rare occurrence.”

The lines that creased her forehead furrowed, but Faith couldn’t find words. She blinked and he was suddenly to her left and yanking Callaway to his feet. He was bleeding all over that nice suit, but the Accountant only had eyes for her. “You hold onto that newfound morality.”

“Wait,” Faith frowned, “What?” 

He smirked, in an irritatingly charming way, and confided, “Enjoy the next 27 years. You’ve earned them.” 

Dumbfounded, she could only reiterate. “What?” 

A coin was tugged from the pocket of his slacks and he tossed it into the air. It blinked, blinding as it caught the sunlight, and Faith found herself unable to look away as it tumbled down to land in the dirt. The dirt in front of her that was now empty; empty of Callaway and the Accountant and empty of blood. The only proof of her most recent escapade was the subtle ache in her knuckles and the still running Charger she’d dragged the asshole out of after she’d run him into a lamppost. 

She glanced around the bit of dirt and gravel before grousing, “Well shit.” 

+

The end.


End file.
